Time ebbs, like that distant horizon, whispers lost in the fog of now.
Do seagulls dance?
Between the scraps of forgotten stories,
halting laughter breaks the silent watch.
Portholes painted by hands unseen, the salt crests shadows.
Voices find me here, cozy in the rust. Amidst the creak, a name - forgotten.
Keepers of old songs, they linger, echoing through the sea's breath.
Tomorrow, when the lighthouse yawns, perhaps the lantern shall spark a memory.